LuxRd Has a Message for Us

On election eve, Lux Rd. springs their new video, “Get Your Fucking Hope Back” (directed by James Matthew Daniel). If the medium is the message, it seems like there’s something here about reimagining what it means to be human–because the models we’ve been working with seem to be making us miserable. Here’s to reimagination! Also, love those move, those dancers, that creepy milk, and the sexy opening and closing images.

Club Zu

club zu

Creepie ghoulies and New Romantics share the love outside Club Zu in Solana Beach, California.

Hips wave and duck. Arms move in unison, right to left, fists gently closed, like they’re pulling a big lever. When the chorus comes, You spin me right round, baby, right round, like a record baby, several dancers interrupt the lever pulling for a brief miming of a record turning, palm down, on cue, right round round round. Kelsey, the nineteen-year-old owner of Club Zu, is on stage, next to a guy in a cape with a skeleton dangling from his ear, its arm looped through the ring in his nose. He waves his arms like a snake charmer, legs together, swaying. Kelsey wears red plaid pants, a black sweater, and black boots. His hair is black and stands up straight off his head. He seems to be looking at nothing, like he’s too inside the music to notice all these people who’ve come to his club from all over San Diego County in their newest outfits, hair freshly dyed, debuting their latest make-up concepts.

I’m eyeing Kelsey’s two friends, who round out the trio of what I consider the coolest people on earth. Tara is tall, pale, lush, the biggest and most gorgeous goth girl here. Her hair is black, with royal blue roots, eyes pale blue, black eyebrows, lips royal with black liner, diamond in her nose. Brian is tiny next to her, with a crimped copper bob, black eyeliner, no lipstick, brocade vest, pegged black wool pants. They’re friends with The Thompson Twins, who hang out here whenever they’re in town for a show.

As Dead or Alive fades into the intro to Visage’s “Fade to Grey,” I hear Paul tell somebody, “this is the twelve-inch.” One man on a lonely platform. One case sitting by his side. I can’t help staring at Kelsey and his friends. “You want to be introduced?” Shannon asks. “You think Kelsey’s cute?” I do, but that’s not it. I want to be them. I adjust the dangling rhinestones in my ear and feel sticky wet behind my lobe. Paul pierced my ear before we caught the bus to the coast, with a needle and rubbing alcohol. He told me to wear the stainless steel stud he had from when he got his pierced at the mall, but I was dying to wear my new rhinestones. We’re pretending we don’t care that we don’t have a ride home.

“We’re going outside,” Paul whispers in my ear as I fiddle with it, “as soon as the song ends.” Wishing life wouldn’t be so dull. Pull, wave, duck, charm, bend, sway.

“Okay, come on,” Paul says, hooking arms with a tiny girl I’ve never seen, but whose rold model is clealry Siouxsie. “I heard Steve Strange has AIDS,” she says as we squeeze through the waving ducking swaying bending crowd. She’s talking about Visage’s singer.

“Really?” I ask. I’m excited to a degree that verges on panic. His new friend brought up the subject that scares me the most. I don’t tell anybody, but I think about AIDS periodically each day, tracing imagined sexual histories for any guy who’s had sex with any guy I’ve made out with. And any guy Paul has. If I’ve got, he does. And vice versa. I don’t know anybody with HIV yet. It will be several years before I’ll have friends who die from AIDS. But this is the beginning of ten years of panic.

“It’s the rumor in London,” she says. I have no idea, at fifteen, that I’m even more afraid of the people I want to be, like Paul’s new friend, who seems to carry rumors across the Atlantic, who drops casual remarks about the health of New Romantic stars I stare at on record covers and videos. If I want all this so badly, why does it freak me out so much?

Thankfully, Warren and Tiffany interrupt my angsty Visage fueled reverie. Theylank us, with two short girls with shaved heads. “Let’s go.” No time for thinking. We’ve known Tiffany since grade school. Now she’s got a mowhawk, and she and Warren are an item. We follow.

“Where are we going?” I ask, regretting the question and feeling like a dork.

“Just come on,” Warren says, patting his back pocket.

We follow him down the alley behind the club. There are some concrete steps with grass growing pretty high out of the cracks, leading to a path along the cliff, where you can climb down to the beach. We can hear waves smashing on the shore below. Warren sits on the steps, surrounded by girls. Tiffany climbs to the top. She and Warren haven’t held hands or kissed all night. The rest of us fill in around the steps. Warren takes a lighter and pipe out of his pocket, digs around some more and pulls out his pot. “Yum,” he says, holding the baggy up to the light from the street lamp, flicking the pot with his index finger and watching it bounce and settle. “Sticky bud. Hawaiian.”

Every now and then Warren starts talking like this, flaunting the collision of his full lips painted red and the surfer boy words coming out of them.

Warren fills the pipe gently, careful to rub the sticky bud into dust without losing any. He lights, sucks, breathes in, hands the pipe to Emily, who lights, sucks, breathes, hands the pipe to Scratch. “Oh yeah,” Warren says, breathing out a cloud of smoke, filling the air with the smell of my mom’s parties. “That’s it,” he says. Somehow, filtered through Warren’s lungs and clinging to the salt in the air, the dense sweet smell seems to have lost all traces of my mom, her boyfriends, my uncles, or their friends. This may be the same pot hippies and metalheads smoke, but it manages to smell like new wave.

Paul takes a hit. He lights, sucks, breathes, hands the pipe to me. I hold it to my mouth and flick the lighter. The flame burns my thumb. I have trouble keeping it lit long enough to burn the pot, but I’m determined. I suck in a cloud of smoke as Paul spurts one out, coughing, laughing. “I can’t stop,” he laughs. “I can’t stop.”

“You didn’t get a hit,” Warren say, hopping off the steps and reaching for the pipe. “Let me help.” He snaps the lighter and tells me to suck. I cough. Paul laughs. Warren and Tiffany laugh. I laugh through more coughs, afraid I might throw up. My ear throbs. There’s a scab growing around the fastener at the back of my lobe, gluing the heavy rhinestones in place. But I got a hit. I’m high, like Warren, with Warren. “Let’s dance,” he says. “Put on your red shoes,” putting his arm around me, lighting the pipe, sucking, and then blowing the smoke into my mouth, grazing my lips.

“I’m so stoned,” Paul says as we walk. “Oh my god, I feel like I’m floating.” I’m not sure if I feel anything or not, but Warren’s lips almost just touched mine.

“Floating on a cloud of love,” Warren says.

“Oh my god, could you be any more of a cliché?” Paul says.

When we show our stamps and re-enter, Kelsey and his friends are dancing to “Collapsing New People” by Fad Gadget. We duck and wave to blend in, sway and bend with the crowd to Soft Cell, Heaven 17, Haysi Fantayzee, Cee Farrow, Blancmange, The Human League, Fashion.

At the stroke of two a.m., the lights come up and the dancers shield their eyes in imitation of Vampires stranded under a rising sun. “I hate to say goodbye,” Kelsey announces over the sound system, “but you creepy ghoulies have to go out into the night. Before the lights melt your foundation.” People pretend not to smile as they circle each other out the door, onto the sidewalk, into cars. Scratch has a car, but it’s full.

“Let’s hit the beach,” Warren says. “Watch the sun rise. First bus is 5:41.”

We follow him up the concrete stairs, seven ride-less, beach-bound stragglers in melting foundation. We have to navigate wobbly stairs with rope for banisters down the cliff.  We feel around in the dark with our feet for a spot without rocks or seaweed. We sit, stars above us beaming just enough light to see the sand particles creeping into our velvet, spandex, lace, and wool. We can hear the waves and just see their froth.  Warren lights the pipe, making his face glow. His lips are puffy, sucking, his eyes almost transparent they’re so light.

“It’s so fuckin’ cold,” Paul says. We all have our arms wrapped around our torsos.

“Let’s cozy up for body warmth,” Warren says, shaking out a shiver. We huddle, a line of beached newros. “Pot will help.” I close my eyes and pretend to sleep while the rest of them light, suck, and breathe, until I really am sleeping, inside a dewy sweet cloud.

I wake warmer, sun on my face, one of the girls shaking me. “You have to see this,” she says, pointing to the glowing pink sun over the cliff, ascending the lavender sky. “Look at the sun,” she says. The pink glows oranger by the second. It’s almost striped: bubblegum pink, red-orange, pure orange. There’s an L-shaped speck of black toward the bottom, like dust on a camera lens.

“It’s a sun spot,” Paul says, sounding encyclopedic, as usual. “It’s probably fucking up satellite communications. The fog’s making it so we can look with the naked eye.” Periwinkle waves lap tan sand at our backs while we watch, their white froth invisible now, canceled out by the white dawn bleaching the sky and sand.

I have no way of knowing it, but Steve Strange will be alive in 2013, releasing a new Visage record. Robert Smith, Siouxsie, and Duran Duran will all still be making records. I will be alive. For now, my earlobe is all scab, the blood caking the edges of the rhinestone poking through it. I taste my finger after fiddling with it, and it’s kind of like licking the ocean.


From the manuscript of my memoir, The One You Get: Portrait of a Family Organism (represented by Carrie Howland at Donadio & Olson).


Interview with Heather Houser

9780231165143Heather Houser’s book Ecosickness in U.S. Contemporary U.S. Fiction: Environment and Affect (Columbia UP 2014) moved and fascinated me. Houser writes about ecology and sickness in fiction by some of the most influential contemporary American writers, including Jan Zita Grover, Marge Piercy, Richard Powers, Leslie Marmon Silko, David Foster Wallace, and David Wojnarowicz. Houser’s writing is lucid and engaging. She does an amazing job of showing how these writers elicit particular feelings—anxiety, wonder, disgust—and motivate readers to environmental consciousness. We read fiction to lose (and find) ourselves in worlds invented by writers. How do those invented worlds help us think about feel? How do they reflect the bewildering thing we call the real world? Can they motivate us to ethical engagement? I’m delighted that Heather Houser agreed to talk about some of these questions with me.

Ecosickness in U.S. Contemporary Fiction is the winner of Association for the Study of the Arts of the Present Book Award for 2015. It will be published in paperback this spring.

In your book, you describe fiction as “a laboratory for perceptual and affective changes that can catalyze ethical and political projects.” Your focus is works of fiction that tell ecological stories, about forms of illness and suffering that link human bodies with environmental factors that play often mysterious roles in making them sick. I love the way you borrow the word laboratory from science here. A lab is the place where experiments happen, and scientists conduct experiments when they want to learn something about something that remains mysterious. I would love to hear you talk about an example of a work of fiction as a laboratory—one example that really shows what mean.

Your characterization of the meanings of laboratory precisely matches what I was thinking with this. One of the claims of Ecosickness is that authors depict and deploy emotions like disgust and anxiety in ways that don’t predictably conform to an environmental ethic or politics. So, just as the etiologies of the sicknesses that authors like David Foster Wallace and Leslie Marmon Silko depict aren’t cut-and-dried, the trajectories of emotions are uncertain. Let’s take Silko’s Almanac of the Dead (1991) as an example. In Ecosickness I run through how this enormous novel’s precise and relentless detailing of the horrors of racism, genocide, and environmental degradation generates anxiety in characters and readers alike. I think of Almanac as a laboratory for anxiety because the outcomes of this emotion are as uncertain as the outcomes of the exploitations and rebellions the book narrates. Will anxiety be politically motivating or will it tip over into paralysis? I find this uncertainty productive for literary analysis for the same reasons I assume it’s productive for authors: it’s not predictive and this encourages the critic to examine aesthetic strategies like plot structure and metaphor as kinds of tools or methods in the experiment with affect. How does, in the case of Almanac, the novel’s sprawling geography and character set influence the production of anxiety? How does a conclusion entitled “Home” calm this disturbing feeling?


Todd Haynes’s film Safe (1995) has become an iconic take on eco-sickness in our time.

How do you define ecosickness? What’s the origin of the term? I ask because it seems to me that all illness involves relationships between an organism and an environment, but I think you mean something more particular—both conceptually and historically.

Most illnesses have environmental factors that shape them, even if they don’t cause them. But you’re right that I mean something more particular here. “Ecosickness” refers to the interplays between human bodies and the more-than-human world that manifest materially through dysfunction and conceptually, culturally, and politically through our tropes and narratives. This has an historical dimension because, I argue, innovations in technoscience such as genetic modification and biosphere engineering helped intensify the damages through which the imbrications of body and environment become visible. They have also intensified the affects that attach to transformations to life itself. The term “ecosickness” emerged from conversations with my writing group and mentors as I was writing the dissertation that became the book. I was using “sickness” to capture my meaning but was running up against the fact that this word typically calls up either the human body alone and/or moral judgment. By adding “eco-,” I thought I could retain but augment those associations. Most importantly, I hoped readers would come to think of dysfunction as pervasive and as necessarily engaging numerous systems—biological, social, political, etc.

I’d imagine many people suffering from various forms of ecosickness have a hard time finding answers about the causes of their symptoms—and that people build communities to help each other find answers, and solace. Are there any particular community groups or projects that stand out to you for the ways they help people cope with the uncertainties you discuss in the book?

I’m not particularly knowledgeable about this, but I’m aware of a number of citizen science networks that monitor the environmental conditions that might correlate to lived sickness. There’s often a distance between the institutions and experts that examine the human body and those that research environmental pollutants and other factors. To fill this gap and connect dots–if only for themselves–people become naturalists of the “unnatural” and diarists of their own body’s functioning. With new technologies, citizen science is becoming more quantified and integrated. For example, the Air Quality Egg project provides devices for detecting and reporting on air pollution. Stacy Alaimo, Steven Epstein, and Giovanna di Chiro have all written tellingly of these grassroots ways of establishing environmental and medical expertise and how they hook up with political and social justice fights. The Human Toxome Project is building communities and citizen knowledge of environmental sickness.

Your question about anxiety—will it motivate or paralyze?—rings true to me. It seems to me this is a feeling most people I know live with every day. Your book’s focus on ecosickness connects so many of the contemporary realities that provoke anxiety: the pollution that’s transforming the earth, economic and social injustice, geopolitical inequities, mortality, the possibility of extinction or apocalypse. The list could go on. You’ve read and thought about these subjects more than most. In your reading, have you come across ideas or actions or suggestions that strike you as antidotes to personal and political paralysis?

Truthfully, I think enduring antidotes, especially ones that come in the formal of external motivation, are hard to find. Disgust at injustice and antipathy toward inertia are the strongest antidotes for me personally. Ann Cvetkovich’s book Depression: A Public Feeling offers remarkable reflections on both these spurs to involvement, and I’m continually inspired by those like my UT colleagues Robert Jensen and Snehal Shingavi who never fail to organize and speak out. I share her sentiment, voiced there, that there will be days when we throw up our hands and sit it all out. And then there will be days of activation when we see alternatives to the realities you describe and want to do our damnedest–through protest, lobbying, teaching, conversation, writing, meditation—to make those alternatives know. To my mind, the strongest sources of paralysis are perfectionism and fatalism and just doing can stave off both tendencies.

Can we talk a little more about perfectionism and fatalism? I think you’re absolutely right that both lead to paralysis. Both tendencies seem to involve a yearning for certainty. Perfectionism is a fantasy that we can do something just right, fatalism that it doesn’t matter what we do. In your book, you made a conscious choice to write about works of fiction that don’t offer any clear cause-and-effect explanations for the relationship between sickness and environment. I’m guessing here, but your point about just doing seems related to that decision. You’re writing about works of fiction that seem less about solving problems that living with, through, or beyond them. In other words, doing. I’m curious to hear about how you made the decision to focus on texts that aren’t explicit or definite about environmental causes for sickness. Did you know all along that this was what you wanted to do, or did you realize it some time later in the process of doing your research and writing? What difference does it make when works of fiction don’t represent definite causes for the sicknesses they portray?

This is a rich question with a number of rabbit trails to follow. Ecosickness initially emerged from a broader interest in representations of disease in 20th-century fiction. I certainly investigated stories in which diseases–or potential diseases–had environmental causes (Don DeLillo’s White Noise, Terry Tempest Williams’s Refuge), but I also found stories in which disease and environmental decline were seemingly running on parallel tracks. I didn’t know quite what to make of this at first but wanted to explore whether there was some feature of the works–representational strategies, ideological investments, historical conditions, etc.–that bends those parallel lines and make them converge at a level other than plot. In doing my readings, I found that the feature that bent the lines was narrative affect, which I define in Ecosickness as emotions attached to formal dimensions of texts that draw conceptual and experiential homologies between somatic and environmental damage. 

Highlighting narratives without definite causes helped me think outside of the “solution” model of ecocriticism and political criticism more general. The upshots for an environmental politics of books like Infinite Jest or North Enough aren’t always tidy or uplifting. If much political criticism of the 80s-00s looked to literature for its subversive potential or ability to resist oppression and exploitation, the criticism of the messy narratives in Ecosickness instead shows the obstacles to more politically assuaging (for some) readings. Looking outside of cause-and-effect models also encouraged attention to formal mechanisms like metaphoric systems (primarily what I call throughout my book medicalization) or how narrative structures and characterization mesh (as in the case of Almanac of the Dead). This allows for a criticism in which formal attentiveness is in the service of eco-political, ethical, and affective interpretation.

As with any project, some pragmatic things also motivated my choice of narratives that aren’t invested in rooting out causes or drawing vectors between cause and effect. That was to build on rather than reduplicate some of the excellent scholarship on environmental health culture and history that appeared as I was conceiving the project. I’m thinking here of magnificent titles by Stacy Alaimo—Bodily Natures–and Linda Nash—Inescapable Ecologies. While both studies are explicit about the impossibility of pinpointing etiologies in environmental health matters, the kinds of texts and phenomena they examine raise an expectation for that discovery even if they don’t satisfy it.

Let’s talk another feeling—wonder. You discuss wonder in novels by Richard Powers, including The Echo Maker. I should tell you that I’m a huge fan of the cranes in that novel, which you write about. When I first read your gorgeous interpretations of the cranes, I thought, “Oh, shit, I’ve been scooped.” Then I realized that there’s plenty of room for your reading and mine, and that yours will only help me make mine stronger. Anyway, you discuss wonder in some surprising and complex ways—not simply as a great feeling that helps us cope or hope. Can you give readers of the blog a preview of your take on how wonder works in our emotional and literary lives?

Wonder is just everywhere in environmental writing. I’m encountering it over and over as I work on my current project (called, for now, “Environmental Art and the Infowhelm”) for which I’m reading classical natural history and “the new natural history” of the past 30 years. In studying Powers’s The Echo Maker for Ecosickness I found that, for as much as wonder motivates the science-curious characters and science-driven plot and, in fact, is the essence of inquiry, it also shares features with projection and paranoia. Showing how wonder can slide into these relations, Power’s story of neurological damage and habitat destruction also shows that even feelings like wonder that seem productive for environmental care can have other outcomes.  I want to continue thinking about the trajectories of wonder, especially as it arises from curiosity in my current project, but there I’ll be focusing especially on its effects on ways of attending to and knowing the more-than human.

So we have something to look forward to. I, for one, am excited to read anything you write—but especially if it’s about wonder and curiosity. I imagine we’ll all be thinking about all things more-than-human in the near future. I’d imagine you teach some fascinating courses. I’d love to hear about how your teaching relates to your writing about eco-sickness and about the cultural work of feelings in general. 

I taught a course called “Imagining Contamination” in which we discussed Todd Haynes’s film Safe (1995). The idea for the course was to think about medical, environmental, cultural, and social contaminants and how one type can become the others. Safe is a particularly challenging film to watch and to teach, not least because it is deliberately irritating–the soundtrack, the color palette and lighting, some characters’ seeming vacuity. Viewers can easily become polarized about the status of the protagonist, Carol White’s (Julianne Moore), multiple chemical sensitivity (MCS). Some students readily fell into the “it’s all in her head; she’s hysterical” interpretation and read Carol’s disease as Haynes’s indictment of suburban domesticity and consumerism. Others considered features of the film such as mise-en-scène that suggested environmental causes to the symptoms Carol develops that ultimately lead her to leave her family and San Fernando Valley home to live in the desert with others affected by MCS. Safe to me is a laboratory for thinking and feeling because of its unpredictability. Haynes’s aesthetic strategies combined with his refusal to preach—to be avowedly and identifiably environmentalist—set in motion the experiment in which my students participated. Without denying the validity of their divergent responses, I tried to steer them to think about how even what’s “in our heads” has a reality, not only because the feelings it produces in the so-called hysterical person are embodied and experienced but also in that toxicity–actual and perceived–has sociocultural origins. In any case, Safe might be the work I’ve taught that most makes students feel experimented upon precisely because they are so uneasy in the act of viewing and in their ensuing interpretations. It gets at one of the points with which I conclude Ecosickness: “Uncertainty about the outcomes of affect makes it hazardous terrain, for the artist and for the critic.” And for the teacher and student.

Sesame Street’s Missed Opportunity

“If you want to make a human being into a monster, deny them, at the cultural level, any reflection of themselves.”

–Junot Diaz

In her careful, compassionate critique of Sesame Street‘s new attempts to represent autistic kids on the show, Erin Human, quotes Junot Diaz, from a speech he gave to New Jersey students. Diaz sees his job as a novelist as “making mirrors” for people who aren’t represented much in mainstream culture.

That is what Sesame Street is trying to do with autistic kids. In “Not in Love with Julia,” Erin Human has spent a lot of time with the show’s various materials and she’s evaluated them, thinking about whether she’d want her own kids to see them. Sesame Street has created an autistic character, Julia. She’s intended to be a positive representation, to help kids understand neurological difference. But Julia isn’t a full-fledged muppet. She only appears in animated sequences. She doesn’t speak for herself, and the narratives she’s involved in are all aimed at educating so-called neurotypical kids. They don’t really speak to autistic kids on their terms.

I want to share Human’s article about Sesame Street, because she’s a master rhetorician. She offers a serious critique without attacking anybody. She’s a model of civil discourse, and we need more of that in the world. I also want to share it because autistic people’s lives will be improved if our cultures produce mirrors like the ones Diaz describes. The same goes for people who embody all kinds of difference, neurological or otherwise.

Because Human–whose name is amazing!–is such a compassionate critic, she ends with a sort of rallying cry:

This website is not good. There’s too much that’s bad tipping the scales toward ableism and stigma. I hope Sesame Street listens. I think they can still fix this. Go back to the drawing board (literally and figuratively) with Julia, scrap everything else. Yep, scrap it. You made an autistic muppet, awesome. I love that she does happy flapping and loves to sing. Make her a real muppet. Make her part of the Sesame Street family. Let her talk instead of just talking about her. Let autistic kids see their reflection in her and feel that they are real people too, not monsters. Let them tell their own stories. Sesame Street has always known how to let kids be kids and they can do it again, and they can start now.

It would be amazing if the people who make Sesame Street hear Human’s message. They have a chance to do a better job. I would love to see them rise to the occasion.

Joseph LeDoux: On the Radio

9780670015337In my other life as a DJ, I had the pleasure of spending two hours on the air with Joseph LeDoux, neuroscientist and frontman for the band The Amygdaloids. My show is The Mixtape, on 90.5 FM WJFF in Jeffersonville, New York. Usually, it’s a music show, but last week it was a combination of music and interview. In his new book,  Anxious: Using the Brain to Understand and Treat Anxiety, LeDoux argues that we need to understand consciousness if we’re going to understand fear and anxiety. Along with the book, LeDoux’s band The Amygdaloids released a CD also entitled Anxious.  During the show, we play several tracks from the CD and music about anxiety and fear from the pop music archive. We also discuss the biology of emotion, the “hard problem” of consciousness, and therapeutic treatments for anxiety (among other topics). You can listen below.

Caitlin Kuhwald: Jane Eyre’s Watercolors


Caitlin Kuhwald, “Iceberg.” Watercolor. 2014.

 The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a polar winter sky: a muster of northern lights reared their dim lances, close serried, along the horizon.  Throwing these into distance, rose, in the foreground, a head,—a colossal head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting against it.  Two thin hands, joined under the forehead, and supporting it, drew up before the lower features a sable veil, a brow quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow and fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone were visible.  Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban folds of black drapery, vague in its character and consistency as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with sparkles of a more lurid tinge.  This pale crescent was “the likeness of a kingly crown;” what it diademed was “the shape which shape had none.” –Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre


Jane Eyre fans, get ready. Illustrator and watercolorist Caitlyn Kuhwald is revivifying Jane’s art. Jane Eyre spends a lot of time daydreaming worlds even more menacing than the ones she lives in. A prolific artist throughout the novel, she documents some of these daydreams in watercolor. Of course, drawing and painting would have been essential skills for a Victorian governess, who needed the “accomplishments” of the ruling classes in order to instruct her pupils in them–music, art, a breadth of reading from the classics to the contemporary. Ekphrasis–the literary depiction of a work of art–has a long history, including Achilles’s shield in Homer’s The Iliad, the frescoes in Cervantes’s Don Quixote, the Grecian urn in Keats, the masterpiece in Zola, Dorian Gray’s portrait in Wilde, Icarus falling in Auden, The Goldfinch in Donna Tartt. Like these, Jane Eyre’s drawings are central to plot: Through them, Rochester learns that he has not hired a run-of-the-mill governess, setting in motion is compulsion to seduce her.

The terror of Jane’s watercolors strays pretty far from the routine landscapes or portraits of your ordinary governess. Like an heir to William Blake and a foremother to the surrealists, Jane Eyre is preoccupied with mystical landscapes and morbid bodies. Kuhwald’s recreations tell the story. I’ve included two finished pieces, “Evening Star” and “Iceberg”–as well exploratory illustrations for “Corpse,” a work in progress–along with Brontë’s descriptions of the watercolors from the novel. This is an ongoing project for Kuhwald, who is also considering illustrating some of the dreams and fantasies Jane doesn’t draw in the novel.


Caitlin Kuhwald, “Evening Star.” Watercolor. 2015.

The second picture contained for foreground only the dim peak of a hill, with grass and some leaves slanting as if by a breeze.  Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky, dark blue as at twilight: rising into the sky was a woman’s shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I could combine.  The dim forehead was crowned with a star; the lineaments below were seen as through the suffusion of vapour; the eyes shone dark and wild; the hair streamed shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by electric travail.  On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight; the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds from which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star. –Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre



Caitlin Kuhwald. Sketch for “Corpse.” Ink on paper. 2015.

The first represented clouds low and livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was in eclipse; so, too, was the foreground; or rather, the nearest billows, for there was no land.  One gleam of light lifted into relief a half-submerged mast, on which sat a cormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with foam; its beak held a gold bracelet set with gems, that I had touched with as brilliant tints as my palette could yield, and as glittering distinctness as my pencil could impart.  Sinking below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse glanced through the green water; a fair arm was the only limb clearly visible, whence the bracelet had been washed or torn. –Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Caitlyn Kuhwald is known for her use of bright color, the precision of her detail, and her ability to re-envision the aesthetics of other eras. She’s an artist whose visual voice is ideal for the job of giving visual form to the terror and beauty of Jane Eyre’s artistic vision. 


The McGill Pain Index (and Its Metaphors)

If you’re in a lot of pain, you’re likely to visit a doctor who will ask you to complete a questionnaire based on the McGill Pain Index, which gets its name from the venerable Canadian University where it was developed. Pain is subjective, and the index is designed to generate something like objective statistics about our collective experience of physical pain.

I can’t help thinking the project is hopeless. How can people know how to rate pain on a scale of 1 to 10? In relation to what? The history of our own pain? The pain of others? The most severe pain I ever experienced was when I was in middle school. I’d sprayed my hair lavender to go to school as a punk rocker on Halloween. I guess I sprayed too many fumes up my nose and ended up in the nurse’s office barfing with a migraine (the only one I’ve experienced). I guess I’d rate that pain a 9. It probably saved me from getting my ass kicked that day, which saved me from physical pain that probably would have rated only a 5 or 6. (And plenty of unrateable humiliation.)

But the McGill Pain Index doesn’t just rate pain. It categorizes it. Pain can flicker, jump, drill, stab, cut, rasp, burn, or shoot.


Nearly every category of pain on the index is a metaphor. Pain is a knife, it’s a hammer, a fire, a drill, a gun, a piece of sandpaper. Virginia Woolf complained that “English, which can express the thoughts of Hamlet and the tragedy of Lear, has no words for the shiver or the headache. . . . The merest schoolgirl when she falls in love has Shakespeare or Keats to speak her mind, but let a sufferer try to describe a pain in his head to a doctor and language at once runs dry.” The McGill Pain Index was launched in 1971, 30 years after Woolf’s death. I wonder if she would have appreciated it.

In her book, The Body in Pain, Elaine Scarry remarks that “Whatever pain achieves, it achieves in part through its unsharability, and it ensures this unsharability through its resistance to language.” We can’t share pain. It reminds us that we’re alone with our pesky subjective experiences. Based on this, Scarry observes that another person’s pain is always doubtful. We can’t share it, so we can’t believe it, not viscerally. Our own pain, she writes, is “a certainty.” We know it. It dominates us.

But we can share pain, through metaphors. This makes me wonder: Has the McGill Index unwittingly turned the clinical experience of diagnosing pain into an aesthetic exercise?

In the words of Emily Dickinson,

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there was
A time when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

Pain is an obliterating certainty. It dominates consciousness. It suspends time. It sees itself everywhere. But when we atomize it, with the McGill metaphors, we fill in the blanks and interrupt the infinity. That’s what aesthetic experience does: It hijacks consciousness with experience created through engagement with an artist’s tools for simulating experience in paint or words or video.

I don’t remember if the school nurse talked the fake punk rocker in her office that day through the McGill questionnaire, but from memory I’d call that pain icy. The projectile vomit, on the other hand, was rasping.

My Body Remembers

I pause when I reach the porch. Stanley sees me. My current step-dad is prone on the couch, hairy in boxer shorts. The light from the TV blinks on his face and chest. His mouth is moving, like he’s talking to the screen. I open the door and walk in, looking straight ahead at my room. He stinks, of course, like musty sweat and alcohol. If I can walk past without provoking him, maybe we can skip what I know is about to happen.

“Hey kid, where ya been?” Walk.

“No hello for your old man. Would Mommy like that? Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” she mimicks my high kid’s voice. “Fuckin’ momma’s boy.”

“I’m here,” I mutter.

“What was that? Huh? Whatever. You missed the fuckin’ game.”

“I hate football.” He knows that. of course.

“I hate football,” He mimicks. “Fuckin’ wuss. Go play with your Barbies.” He’s up, hairy and staggering toward me, red and grinning. “Commeer. Commeeer. You scared? I just want to talk to you.” He picks me up. My body is stringy and uncoordinated. He shakes it. I start to cry.

“Whatsamatter, kid? I didn’t do shit. Toughen up. Learn how to fight. Fight me. Fuck.”

“I hate you,” I say. He drops me. I try to stop my heaves. I rub my face on the floor to dry the tears. I struggle to compose my face. I can’t stand that contorted crying face.

“Look, you goddamn sissy ass faggot. You want a fight? I got the belt. Look.” He’s grinning but yelling too. Fun and fury are all mixed up in Stanley. “Nobody ever teaches you a lesson. Your old man’s a fuckin’ loser. He’s not around to teach you anything. That’s your problem. I’ll teach you.” I feel his foot nudging me, like I’m a dead animal he wants to turn over. I freeze. If I remain still, it will eventually end. I know this from experience.

Stanley didn’t beat me up all the time. He mocked me constantly. He played a game that involved swinging me around in the air, against my will, while I cried for him to stop.

I don’t know how accurate the memories are. Time gelled them. Writing warped them. But my body remembers–something. I’ve had enough therapy to make emotional and intellectual peace with Stanley’s abuse. I even confronted him in an oblique way, at my Nanny’s funeral. There was slight satisfaction in that.

It wasn’t until I was about forty that I realized my body is almost always on constant alert. If somebody cutting my hair nudges my head, it’s an effort not to resist. If a masseur or doctor tries to move my limbs or torso, I have to make a conscious effort to move my body the way I think it’s supposed to go. I often get it wrong. I can tell this perplexes people. A couple of years ago, a man much larger than me confronted me in a physical way that swept my body right back into those rooms with Stanley. When I see this man, it’s like that frozen and contorted kid emerges from my cells and occupies my muscles and nerves. Bones too. The alert also means I’m pretty good at navigating traffic on a bike and at catching falling glasses before they break.

I decided to write this today because my body’s memory fascinates me but also because I’m a little tired of it. My best guess is that my body learned to freeze, like a threatened rabbit, and held the pose at the ready. Just in case. Lately I’ve been wondering if there’s some kind of physical practice that might loosen the fear out of my muscles.

I’m fine. I love my life. I’m not looking for condolences or sympathy. But if you have ideas about the relationship between childhood physical abuse and body memory, I’d love to hear about them.

Adapted from The One You Get: Portrait of a Family Organism (represented by Carrie Howland, Donadio & Olson).

Breaking: Telepathic Passionflowers Are Felt to Undergo Suffering



e. PASSIVE [_]
f. OTHER [x] *


Imagine a series of over-layering discs. To unlock the axis of the blossom, you need to know which numbers to dial. You need to know how to rotate each disc. Otherwise the passionflower will never share its secret with you.

Not everyone can unlock the blossom of a passionflower.  It takes practice. It takes apocalypse. It takes a certain genius.

Passionflowers are mauve and blue. Sometimes they’re orange. Sometimes they’re red – as red as blood; as red as a 911 emergency phone call.

I myself have never seen a passionflower. Not with my own eyes. Not in this lifetime. Or so I’ve been told.


MD1: “The transcranial magnetic sessions are clearly helping.”

Professional hair cutter: “When was the last time you got a haircut?”

MD2: “I would urge you to stop the transcranial electromagnetic sessions. They seem to be making you worse.”

MD3: “You are on too many medications.”

Radio in hair salon: “I feel stupid. And contagious. Here we are now. Entertain us.”

MD2: “Maybe you’re on the wrong combination of meds. Have you considered changing them?”

Friend: “You seem to be functioning pretty well.”

MD1: “Who told you that?”

Radio in salon: “I’m worse at what I do best. And for this gift I feel blessed.”

MD3: “I’m surprised you haven’t yet died from an interaction of these medications. No wonder you’ve been vomiting.”

Self: “I always cut my own hair. Well, except for today.”

MD1: “Another alternative would be hospitalization.”

Friend: “Since when have you been vomiting?”

MD2: “It could be due to another condition altogether. Maybe you should take a medical leave. Get thoroughly checked out.”

Radio: “With the lights out, it’s less dangerous!”

MD3: “Do you consume gluten and sugar? If so, you should remove them from your diet.”

Professional hair cutter: “When was the last time you got a *real* hair cut?”

MD1: “ECT is also extremely effective.”

Acquaintance: “If you were reincarnated, what would you want to be next?”

Self: “I don’t remember… Maybe a decade ago.”

MD3: “I encourage you to overcome your fear of acupuncture needles.”

Self: “You don’t understand. I can’t take a leave. It is impossible. I need this job.”

Radio: “Hello, hello, hello, how low. Hello, hello, hello, hollow.”

MD2: “Have you tried Latuda? Studies have shown that it can do wonders for bipolar patients.”

Professional hair cutter (while shampooing my hair vigorously): “Ohhhh… So, an accident?”

MD1: “At least finish this round of treatments.”

RN (in a soft voice while taking my blood pressure): “Personally I think you should try medical marijuana.”

Acquaintance: “A leaf? Why would you want to be a leaf? No one wants to be reincarnated as a leaf.”

Hypnagogic voice: “…passionflower tea will soothe your nervous system naturally passionflower tea will soothe your nervous system naturally passionflower tea will… ”
Self: “Accident? I don’t understand. What accident.”

MD3: “I’m looking at your chart and these meds are toxic.”

Professional hair cutter (while rinsing my hair): “Yes, brain damage?”

MD2: “These meds are keeping you alive.”

Radio: “And I forget just why I taste. Oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile. I found it hard, hard to find. Oh well, whatever, never mind.”

Acquaintance: “Why not aspire to be a beam of light in your next life?”

Self (confused by the towel in which my hair is tightly wrapped): “What are you talking about? And what is this thing on my head? How do I turn it off? Why does my head hurt?”

Friend: “Wait. You spend how long writing each letter of recommendation? Damn. Having OCD must suck.”

Radio: “A denial, a denial, a denial, a denial, a denial, a denial, a denial, a denial”

Self: “A beam of light. That would be nice. A beam of light. A beam of light.”




Seo-Young Chu is intrigued by the etymological resonances between and among (in alphabetical order) ‘anthropopathic,’ ‘apathy,’ ‘dispassionate,’ ’empathy,’ ‘homeopathic,’ ‘impatience,’ ‘passion,’ ‘passion-flower,’ ‘passive,’ ‘pathetic,’ ‘pathologist,’ ‘pathology,’ ‘pathos,’ ‘patient,’ ‘sympathy,’ and ‘telepath.’

Mona’s Trip

“Ma’am, I’m Agent Brown and this is Agent Blonde. Secret Service.” They flash their badges at my mom. “Your dog seems to be in some distress.” Mona, our black lab, has been acting weird for a couple of weeks. We’ve all gotten used to the yelping, but you have to admit the lunging toward the sky is pretty weird.

“I’m taking her to the vet,” my mom says. I wonder if it’s true.

“But that’s not why we’re here,” Blonde says. “We’re here to discuss a Stanley Messin. We believe you were married to him.”

“Yeah?” she says.

“Mr. Messin was heard making a threat on the life of President Ford.”

“What?” my mom says. They’re going to arrest Stanley. I’m really starting to like police.

“Goddamn Stanley Messin kill the fucking ex-President?” my  mom’s friend Cheech says. “Now that’s hilarious.”  Cheech waitresses with my mom at the Seafood Market. She’s Portuguese too. She’s got the same shag as all the Yourgales guys who own the restaurant, except even blacker and more wiry. Her Portuguese skin is darker than ours, and her nose is bigger. She could easily be a man. She talks like one. She and my mom hang out all the time now.

“We take these threats seriously,” Brown says.

“Not this one, Honey,” Cheech says. “It’s a fuckin’ joke.”

“Cheech,” my mom says, shooting her a shut up look.

“Is that your impression, ma’am,” Blonde says to my mom, “that the threat is not serious?”

“Stanley just likes to talk. He gets drunk and talks.”

“Thank you for your time, ma’am. We’ll be in touch if we have further questions.”

“Okay,” she says, shutting the door.

We all go to the window and watch Brown and Blonde pull out of the driveway, Mona’s yelps deepening to a growl as she tries to leap in the direction of their car. At the side of the shed, we can see JP and his friend Sonny looking down at the ground like two archeologists who just found buried treasure. JP’s been living in our shed since he got out of prison. Everybody but me knows he OD’d on PCP, which is why he’s been acting weird. Between him and Mona, our dusty yard is like a psych ward.

“JP is out of his mind,” Cheech says. “He buy you that sheep yet, Jas?” JP and I are going to start a business. He’s going to buy me a sheep, and I’m going to use it to make money mowing people’s lawns.

“No,” I say, starting to think he never will. “I could have been making money by now.”

“Don’t count on it,” she replies.

“Cheech,” my mom reprimands.

“Well, he’s out of his fucking mind. He shouldn’t get the kid’s hopes up. What the fuck are they doin’ anyway?”

When we get down there, we see that they’re kneeling over a pile of dog poop. Mona poop. “What’s up?” Cheech asks. What’s up is that the poop is dotted with shreds of what looks like construction paper with colored patterns on it. “Oh, shit,” Cheech says.

JP’s eyes are wide like a toddler’s. His mouth’s a little open. “We found it,” he says.

“What?” my mom asks.

“The acid Sonny buried.”

“That was two-hundred hits,” Sonny says.

“What?” my mom says.

“That’s it. In Mona’s shit,” JP says, pointing at the pile of dried up Mona poop from which Sonny is prying little bits of mangled orange and blue paper.

“Goddamn dog ODs,” Cheech says, “and the cat leaves another dead fuckin’ rabbit at the back door.” Everybody looks. Misty’s not around, but her gift is curled up on the back step, its tiny ear sticking up and its white ball of a tail. Mona’s on her side now, exhausted, whimpering.


Mona wags her body down Lake Drive, a frothy rage growing out of the discomfort she feels with the freedom. JP and his wife Sue Ellen were sitting on the porch, sunning their new baby, Jimmy Freddy. Mona had the same idea. When the sun is straight up at the top of the sky, it makes her black fur shine in this way she can feel beneath the skin. She likes to lay with her two front paws stretched straight out in front of her snout. The baby was right in her line of vision, on Sue Ellen’s lap, naked, a pink ball of fat with droopy blue eyes. It was something about the squishy velvet of his skin. Mona pounced in one straight glide, her teeth bared so that all she had to do was clamp and she could feel her teeth sink in before Sue Ellen, screaming and hitting her hard on the top of her head, pulled the baby into the shack.

She can still feel the sun under her skin, and she can taste the baby’s blood under her tongue, where some of it lodged itself. She passes Riley, whose lanky Irish Wolfhound gait and greasy matted fur intimidate her into snarling. When he just trots past, she releases a high-pitched bark, the kind that makes an animal sound like she’s lost control.

She’s just passed the mile point when she sees the cage—a wooden rectangle on stilts covered in chicken wire. She has to climb a bank of ice plant to reach it, but the fur poking through, a light grey dusted with cocoa at the ends, is worth the effort. Her paws get tangled in the vines more than once, but she just keeps her eye on the fur, which moves almost imperceptibly every few seconds, like good bait should.

The humiliation of the tangled ice plant still in her eyes, she reprises her pounce, diving straight at the cage and breaking one of the old wood posts that it holds together. The angora inside is trying to adjust to the new slope in its floor when it sees Mona’s snarl invade. Barking maniacally now, Mona goes straight for a mouthful of wide round eyes and droopy cocoa ears. The crush of bones and the stringy resistance of muscle become the sum of her reality while she chews at the carcass, until she hears a scream a lot like Sue Ellen’s, but deeper. Without bothering to see the gray hair or turquoise necklace attached to it, she dives straight down the ice plant and lands her pads hard on the concrete of Lake Drive. Her mouth is a matted mess of cotton-dry fur and salty blood.


From the manuscript of my memoir, The One You Get: Portrait of a Family Organism (represented by Carrie Howland at Donadio & Olson).

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